He took the bag and examined a handful of the contents—the green and the blue stones.
"This," said he, "is another sign of the customs of these men. This was Jackson's little lot, I expect; the man the Poorman boys picked up. Jackson was a long time in the Gila country."
"But what are they?" I said.
"Why, turquoises," replied Apache Kid.
"Turquoises in America?" I said.
"Yes," said he, "and a good American turquoise can easily match your Persian variety."
He went over and sat down upon his stool.
"I don't like this," said he, disgustedly, and I waited his meaning. "Fancy!" he cried, and then paused and said: "Fancy? You don't need to fancy! You see it here before you. When I say fancy, what I mean is this: Can you put yourself, by any effort of imagination, into the ego of a man who has a fortune in either of his boot-soles, a fortune in his belt, a fortune in the lining of his old overcoat, and yet goes on hunting about in the mountain seeking more wealth, grovelling about like a mole? Can you get in touch with such a man? Can you discover in your soul the possibility of going and doing likewise? If you can, then you're not the man I took you for."
"They did n't get these turquoises here, then?" I said.
"Oh, no! I don't suppose that there is such a thing as a turquoise in this whole territory. Don't you see, we've struck these fellows' banking accounts? Did you ever hear of a prospector putting his whole funds in a bank? Never! He 'll trust the bank with enough for a rainy day. The only thing that he 'll do with his whole funds is to go in for some big gamble, such as the Frisco Lottery that put thousands of such old moles on their beam ends. In a gamble he 'll stake his all, down to his pack-horse. But he does n't like the idea of putting out his wealth for quiet, circumspect, two-a-half per cent interest. He 'd rather carry it in his boot-soles than do that any day."